


Peaches?

by awenswords



Series: Voltron One-Shots [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Bisexual Lance, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Lesbian Pidge, M/M, Mentions of the other paladins - Freeform, Pining, Roomates, innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 19:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awenswords/pseuds/awenswords
Summary: Lance is allergic to peaches, he had a bonding moment with Keith, and now he's having a crisis. And, of course, Pidge is the poor soul who has to listen to his drama.





	Peaches?

"Hey Pidge," Lance says from where he's hunched over his - fuck, what subject is that? - Globalization, Gender, and Culture textbook.

Pidge peers at him over the tops of her glasses, never pausing her too-fast-to-follow typing even as she reaches for a mug of coffee that Lance thinks is definitely not her first, "What." It's a blunt reply, and that's because she knows enough about Lance to expect him to say something stupid.

And he does: "Hey, quick request, I have a favor to ask of you. Please kill me."

"What?" Pidge repeats, a question this time. She pauses her typing, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Whatever bullshit Lance is on today (last week he tried to kidnap the neighbors dog, for Christ's sake), it's not worth him interrupting her geometric modeling essay.

Lance drapes himself over his shitty armchair, the perfect image of drama. Pidge thinks that maybe he should be a theatre major. She didn't know him before college, but she's pretty sure he was a band kid. A band kid. She is living with a fucking band kid. Of all people. Why can't she just befriend nice, quiet nerds?

No. She can't, because her life is awful. 

"What?" She says again, because now Lance is groaning complete gibberish and, wow, she would love to write an essay about what happens when you get a person who is high in every fucking personality trait. High extroversion and high neuroticism do not mix. No to mention the openness to experience. Lord.

Lance raises his head from where it's resting on the floor (when did he end up upside-down?) and blows hair out of his eyes, "Stop psychoanalyzing me."

"Excuse me, motherfucker I do no subscribe to the psychoanalytic method."

"Nerd."

So, she does what any intelligent person would do when faced with Lance. She flips him off and wanders over to the kitchen, opening cupboard, and - "Lance, where the fuck is my boxed wine."

"Humm?"

"You know I need that shit to deal with you."

"Small children like you should not be drinking. Especially shitty, cheap-ass boxed. Wine. Who are you?"

"I'm your only friend."

"I still have Hunk!"

Pidge scoffs, "He's studying abroad this term, so no. You only have me."

As Pidge surveys the kitchen, it's all too obvious that Hunk isn't home. Hunk. The only college student to ever have their shit together. And he's skedaddled off to Argentina for some bushiness engineering program, leaving Pidge and Lance's sorry asses to clean the kitchen. Which they haven't been doing.

Well, that's actually a lie. They have been cleaning, just not to Hunk's standards. Last time Pidge turned on the stove she set of the smoke detectors because apparently Lance didn't realize he has to clean under the burners when he spills his shitty tortilla soup everywhere. And Pidge is pretty sure something is molding in the fridge. It might be the zucchini she lost. How one manages to lose a zucchini, she does not know.

Lance’s wining draws her attention and she turns just in time to see him slide sadly from the armchair and flop onto the floor with a painful thud. Yikes.

"Okay, what is your problem?" She asks, refilling her mug with more black coffee, "Why do you want me to kill you? Because I'm pretty sure there's a line for that."

"For getting murdered by you?"

Huh. She would make an excellent hit-man, but - "No, stupid. For killing you."

"Who's at the top of the list?" Lance asks, picking a cheeto puff off the floor and examining it quizzically before shrugging and popping the probably dust-and-hair covered thing into his mouth. Disgusting. Why does she chose to live with boys?

She hums thoughtfully, stepping over Lance to sit down on one of the many camping chairs they have unfolded around the living room (because who can afford furniture?), "Mullet, obviously."

With a sigh, Lance rolls onto his back, taking up approximately half of the living room, "Mullet. My arch-nemesis. The love of my young life - "

"That's gay,” Pidge says, and starts to count off names on her fingers, “Allura probably wants to kill you too.”

“The only woman I’ll ever love.”

“Shiro, that poor, tired man.”

“He could do anything he wanted to my supple, ready body."

Pidge frowns, sticking out her tongue, "That's disgusting."

"That's homophobic."

She snorts, spewing coffee over her keyboard, "I'm a whole-ass lesbian, my friend."

“I hate him!” Lance says suddenly, sitting up and throwing his hands in the air, “And his dumb fucking mullet and those fingerless gloves. Who the hell wears fingerless gloves! In class! In fucking physics I look over and he’s taking notes. With. Gloves. Summer classes? Wears gloves. Studying in the quad? Wears gloves. I bet he wears them at the beach. I bet he wears them in bed - oh my god, Pidge, does he have se - ”

“I’m going to stop you right there because I really don’t want to know about your weird fantasies,” she pauses, giving Lance a quizzical look as she pushes her glasses up further on the bridge of her nose, “On second thought, do you have a glove kink?”

“Hey!” He looks absolutely appalled but something about the bright blush that rises on his cheeks tells him that, yeah, she’s probably right. She flies the information away for later use. God, she can’t wait to tell Hunk that Lance has a glove fetish. He’ll never live that down.

She rolls her eyes, masks the rising laughter, and takes a long swig of coffee, “I take it your little crisis is about Keith?”

Lance gasps, putting a hand to his heart, “We do not say that name in this household! What do we call him, you little gremlin?”

“Alright. Mullet.”

“Thank you. And, yes. My crisis is about that emo hijo de puta."

“What did he do now?”

Lance takes a deep breath and sits up - it’s story time - and starts a panicked, rapid-fire rant: "So remember last month when I found out that I'm allergic to peaches - " he stops to frown half-halfheartedly in Pidge's general direction "do not make that joke again."

"What joke?" She asks innocently.

"You know - ugh," He sighs, "I almost died, Pidge!"

"Is life really worth living if you can never eat ass?"

"We're moving on. I went into anaphylactic shock. Mullet had to drive me to the ER. I passed out in the waiting room and apparently - apparently! - he cradled me in his arms!" Lance's voice reaches a high-pitched level of panic Pidge never knew he could speak at, "I was passed out in the ER and I missed Kieth cradling me in his arms! I have a terrible life. He said we had a bonding moment!"

"What did you say?"

"I said it never happened."

Pidge gives him a pitiful look, "This is why he thinks you hate him."

Lance looks genuinely offended and scrambles for a response, sputtering before saying, "I do hate him!"

She peers at him while taking a slow sip of coffee, eyebrows raised. They've lived together long enough for him to perfectly interpret the expression and he flops back down on the ground, staring at the ceiling. Pidge follows his gaze and, oh, yeah, she forgot the time they drank Blue Moons and taped pictures of Jar Jar Binks to the ceiling.

"You poor, tragic bisexual," Pidge mutters, stifling a laugh. God, what has her life become?

"I hate you."

"Once again- I'm your only friend so too bad."


End file.
